


The Story We Never Got

by longlivejohnlock (Sherlockxxxx)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Depression, Fix-It, Fix-it fic, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9914282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockxxxx/pseuds/longlivejohnlock
Summary: When Eurus shoots John at the end of The Lying Detective, Sherlock is overcome with guilt and anxiety. With the sister he never knew he had threatening everything and everyone he loves, it's up to Sherlock to find her before anything else happens.





	1. anxiety's calling in my head again

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fix-it fic! Compliant up until TFP. There will be a happy ending and no ambiguity. But the road there isn't always going to be fun or happy. 
> 
> Please heed all warnings and tags. If something changes, I will add it so please be vigilant in checking! 
> 
>  
> 
> Tumblr | [whatwouldhuddersdo](http://whatwouldhuddersdo.tumblr.com) (previously longlivejohnlock)
> 
> TW for this chapter:  
> ~Anxiety

Sherlock sat in the tub, knees pulled to his chest.

The shower-head dropped water over him, cold liquid pounding against his body, soaking his hair and streaming down his face. The cold assault of water was preferable to the impending anxiety attack he felt. He sat in the tub for nearly twenty minutes, just sitting, and trying to breathe. Finally, he managed to drag his limbs out. His legs felt heavy, like he had spent the last several hours climbing up a mountain. And his arms weren’t faring much better, which he discovered while attempting to rub himself dry with a towel that was beginning to smell a little bit funky. 

Sherlock dropped the towel onto the tile and stood, naked and damp, in front of the mirror that had been partly covered in steam. Lifelessness seemed to fill his face — his eyelids were like lead, drooped halfway closed, and there were purple-blue bags under his eyes. He looked paler than usual and the lines around his mouth pointed down, like he’d spent his entire life frowning. 

Exhaling so deeply it almost hurt his lungs, Sherlock slowly slid his legs into a fresh pair of grey cotton pants and pulled on his favourite navy joggers that had become relatively ratty over the years. There was no way he was going to wear one of his dress shirts right now. His muscles and bones were far too tired to even consider struggling with buttons and the ultra clingy fabric, so he wrangled a plain charcoal coloured t-shirt onto his body, which had started to tremble from the cold. Sherlock bent over slightly and ruffled the excess amounts of water out of his curls, droplets spraying the walls. 

Shaking and exhausted, he swung the bathroom door open, sighing with relief as the warm air from the rest of the flat greeted him. The floor was still cold on his bare feet, so he shuffled down the hallway and through the kitchen to the sitting room. He moved quicker than he thought he could, which was comforting at the time. There was a blanket on the sofa and he snatched it up, wrapping it around his shoulders. He flopped down onto the cushions, his teeth chattering involuntarily as he absorbed the heat from the thick fabric. 

Quietly, Sherlock sat bundled up, staring at the fireplace, a large fire burning bright and hot. It was easier to focus on the fire and all of the colours roaring inside of it. And it made it easier to ignore the man who had taken up residence in his black, leather chair.

This was a game Sherlock had always been better at, and always won — not that there was really anything to win. It had to have been at least sixteen minutes and four seconds before the other man decided to speak and break the silence that had somehow grown deafening. 

“So, brother mine,” the man spoke, clearing his throat and trying to make eye contact with Sherlock. “Are you quite ready to leave, yet?”

Reluctantly, Sherlock slowly turned his gaze to his brother, one of his eyes beginning to twitch. But he didn’t reply. Instead, his heart started to race painfully and violently in his chest, so hard it felt like his ribcage was going to shatter into pieces. All of a sudden, he couldn’t breathe — he felt like he was dying and he knew exactly what dying felt like. Breathing rapidly, he clutched his chest, clawing at the blanket tangled around him. His skin started to tingle and burn, and tears started to roll down his cheeks — first in big drops, and then in thin streaks that seemed like they’d never actually stop.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock wheezed. “I-I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!”

He barely felt it when Mycroft’s hands grabbed at his own, frantic but with purpose and steadiness. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly, trying to break through the anxiety like he was chipping away at ice. “Sherlock, focus on my hands on yours.”

Mycroft pressed his thumbs hard against the top of Sherlock’s hand — not hard enough to bruise or to even hurt, just hard enough that he could feel it. When Sherlock didn’t show any reaction, Mycroft tapped his thumbs against Sherlock’s skin in a firm, rhythmic manner, trying to regulate his system. He tapped to the pace of a regular heartbeat and Sherlock’s fingers jerked in response. 

Within seconds, Sherlock gripped Mycroft’s hands tightly — like Mycroft was a life vest and he had to hold on for dear life so that he didn’t lose grip and drown in the ocean of anxiety. Slowly, Sherlock began tapping his thumbs in time with Mycroft, focusing as hard as he possibly could, breathing in deeply and exhaling for two seconds longer. His chest still hurt — pain seemed to radiate into his collarbones because of the strain he had felt — but at least he could breathe again, shaky as it may be. Through he was reluctant, due to sheer humiliation, Sherlock locked eyes with his big brother and nodded in silent thanks. But he didn’t let go. Not yet.

The last time Mycroft had to do this was after Serbia. His brother stayed with him on and off for months when the anxiety and the nightmares seemed to hit him. It happened in waves. For a long time, he was fine, and then it would all crash down around him. And Mycroft was there — he was always there. Out of all the methods they had painstakingly tried, this was the one that seemed to help the most. Something about the rhythmic tapping pulled him out of his anxiety. He might never know why, but it didn’t really matter.

“John is…” Sherlock trailed off. “He’s hurt.” He tightened his grip slightly. “A-and there’s nothing I c-can do about it.” 

“You can be there for him,” Mycroft replied with a soft, sympathetic smile that would have shocked anybody who worked for him. 

“But it’s my fault,” Sherlock whimpered, fighting back tears. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and tears snuck out, wetting his cheeks again. This was the feeling he’d been trying so hard to avoid, but if he was honest with himself, he’d been feeling it all day — it had just made him numb for a while. But he still felt it. He felt it in his bones. John could die — and it was Sherlock’s fault. All Sherlock wanted was for John to survive, even if it meant he blamed Sherlock, too. Even if he hated him. That was more bearable than the thought of John dying. 

“Sherlock, look at me,” Mycroft spoke softly, and Sherlock sniffled, opening his eyes to look at his brother. “This is not your fault. You didn’t even know you had a sister, let alone what she was capable of.”

“But I should have!” Sherlock broke. “It’s my job to know!”

“I made sure you didn’t,” Mycroft sighed, shame visible in his eyes. “If I thought f—”

“I don’t blame you, Mycroft.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“I’ll only blame you if you don’t find her.”

Sniffling and trying to clear his nose, Sherlock hastily released his brothers hands and stood up, needing to move around, needing to break free from the intensity of the conversation. It was all starting to be too much. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began. “What I said…what I’ve always said…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “About feelings and sentiment.” He paused, staring at Sherlock’s back. “I was wrong.”

Sherlock slightly twisted his neck, his face to the side, barely able to see his brother out of the corner of his eye. Anything more would have been difficult for Sherlock to process. 

“And I’m sorry. Please,” he nearly pleaded. “Let me take you to John.”

Without fully turning around and facing Mycroft, Sherlock minutely nodded his head in agreement. 

“Good,” Mycroft said. “Do what you need to do, I’ll wait in the car downstairs.”

Mycroft used his umbrella to push himself up off the sofa and started toward the door. As he briskly approached the stairs, Sherlock abruptly spoke. 

“Mycroft?” 

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said softly — so softly he had barely heard himself say the words.

They smiled affectionately at each other — a brotherly moment that happened more often than people realized — and then Mycroft wandered out of the room, Sherlock listening to his heavy footsteps on the stairs.

There wasn’t much he needed to do. He just needed to breathe for a few minutes. Sherlock wasn’t sure he was ready for this. To see John laying in a hospital bed, wires and needles and bandages all over his broken body. Of course, over the years he had seen John get injured, but it had never been like this. It had never been this close. He had never seen John so close to death. It paralyzed Sherlock to think of his life without John — he could almost feel the blood in his veins turn ice cold at the thought.

Trying to break free of his thoughts, Sherlock went into his room and began stuffing clothes into a big duffel bag. If he was going to go to the hospital to see John, there was no way he was going to leave John’s side — unless John specifically asked him to. He also shoved a few medical textbooks, a stack of cold case files, and his laptop, into the bag. 

With a deep breath (or five), Sherlock zipped up his duffel and swung it over his shoulder. Before he left the flat, he took a look around. 

For some reason, it felt like this would be the last time he’d see Baker Street. Like it wouldn’t be the same when he returned — hopefully with John. 

Or maybe, everything would be exactly the same, and that was more than Sherlock could bear to think about.


	2. are you having fun yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees John for the first time since the attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr | [whatwouldhuddersdo](http://whatwouldhuddersdo.tumblr.com) (previously longlivejohnlock)

The car ride to the hospital was mostly silent, aside from Mycroft offering Sherlock a coffee — something he basically only drank when he was tense and wished to remain that way — and he had also taken a telephone call. Sherlock could tell it was Lestrade on the other end just by the tone Mycroft had. Professional with a tinge of soft affection. Sherlock tuned out as he heard Mycroft confirm they had not been able to find Eurus yet. Even though his stomach had relocated to his throat, he took a large gulp of his coffee, the liquid burning on the way down.

Part of him wanted to scour the streets of London trying to find her, but the other part of him wanted to stay by John’s side. At least this way, if she came back to finish the job, Sherlock would be there to stop her. If he could work up the courage to actually step foot into the hospital, that is. 

At the moment, Sherlock was standing outside of the building, his back against the concrete wall, and an unlit cigarette balanced between his lips. All he could think of when he tried to light it was how disappointed John would be if he had. And he couldn’t even fathom what would happen if John found him with a needle in his arm, which was what he truly longed for right now. 

He pulled the cigarette out and tossed it in the bins beside him, and applied a minty chapstick to his lips, to make sure there was no lingering scent. Not that he’d get that close to John’s face. Taking the last sip of his now cold coffee, he crumpled the cup and added it to the rubbish. 

It was now or never. And he knew it had to be now, no matter how afraid he was. 

Sherlock stepped in front of the motion sensor of the automatic doors and walked in as it opened, the nauseating smell of hospital hitting him like a brick wall. His muscles felt like they were on fire as he tried to be sturdy and stoic. He refused to walk into John’s room shaking like a leaf on a windy day. John would be in enough pain. Sherlock needed to be strong. He would be strong. 

Sherlock saw the bodyguards Mycroft had planted throughout the corridor, wondering where Mycroft had even gone, if he was still here. He got to John’s room, his heart racing in a dangerous way, and he nodded at the guards who obviously recognized him. 

“I-Is he awake?” Sherlock whispered. 

The tall, bulky guard on the left shrugged his shoulders, unaware. 

Sherlock bit his lip nervously, so hard he was beginning to taste iron. Steeling himself, he gulped and stepped forward to turn the doorknob. He snuck into the room as quietly as he could. 

The lights were dim, the only real light coming in through the window. Below the window was a ledge the same length, flowers and the obligatory get-well cards lining it. He could only imagine the majority of flower arrangements came from Mrs. Hudson, who had clearly already been here — Sherlock had spotted John’s carry-on sized suitcase sitting in the corner of the room.

Sherlock clenched his fists before digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Quietly, he glided across the room. He had been nearly soundless until his shoes skidded on the floor — Sherlock had a bad habit of not picking up his feet when he walked. The rubber on tile made an unfortunately loud screech — and bashing his knee on the foot of the hospital bed certainly didn’t help. 

“Shit,” he cursed to himself, rubbing his knee and wincing. 

“Real graceful,” a hoarse voice, heavy with sleep and pain, replied. 

Sherlock froze in his place, still bent slightly at the hips and his hand still covering his knee. Slowly, he raised his eyes up and looked at the man in bed, embarrassed at his clumsiness. His mouth went as dry as his mother’s chicken and his skin felt like it was on fire. 

John looked like he had walked, unarmed, through a battlefield. The bags he had under his eyes were now purple with exhaustion and he had a large gash that had been stitched up on his left temple. A cut adorned his bottom lip and Sherlock could see the bulge and wrinkles of bandages and medical tape under John’s unflattering hospital attire. An thin oxygen tube had been fixed to his nose to help him breathe easier and he was hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV, his hand slightly bruised from where the needle had been inserted. His hair still had bits of dried blood in it and it was getting greasy — which John must have absolutely hated. Tiny blonde and auburn hairs were starting to appear on the bottom of his face, mostly on his chin and his jawline. 

“You okay?” John asked as Sherlock still hadn’t moved. 

“Er — yeah,” he smiled for a moment before his face slowly fell. “I mean, I should be asking you that.”

“I’ve had worse,” he shrugged, trying to mask the pain he felt as a result.

Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips, not wanting to push. They hadn’t broken eye contact yet and Sherlock was positive he was beginning to sweat. At the very least, he knew his face had turned a frankly alarming shade of pink. Without moving his eyes from Sherlock’s, John tipped his head towards the empty chair beside the bed. A small smile appeared again on Sherlock’s lips and he shuffled — carefully — to the chair, plopping down in his usual dramatic way. Somehow, after everything John had been through — Mary, and now this — he still had an undeniable light in his eyes. 

John dozed on and off as they sat in silence, neither really knowing what to say. Every time John fell asleep, Sherlock stared at him, imagining that they were back at Baker Street. And that John was in Sherlock’s bed, not some dreary hospital bed. The morning sun would be beautiful on his tan skin and his ashy, golden hair. The thought made Sherlock ache with sadness, and he felt the smallest tinge of guilt for thinking of his best friend that way, especially at a time like this. Even with that iota of guilt, it took everything inside him, every ounce of strength, to not take John’s hand in his own. 

Sherlock was still staring at John when he woke up, his eyes growing wide as John slowly turned his head to face Sherlock — or maybe to see if he had left yet. John grinned at him and Sherlock felt like crying.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

Gulping so hard it hurt, Sherlock replied. Or tried to. It took him two minutes to say anything, but John was patient with him.

“I-I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so very sorry.”

“For what?” John crinkled his face. “Did you know my new therapist was the sister you didn’t actually know you had?” 

“Well, no,” he admitted finally. “But I should have known something was off.”

“Sherlock… it’s not your fault.”

“It is! John,” his voice broke and he coughed to try to hide it. “It is my fault.”

John turned his hand over so his palm was facing up and he gingerly extended it out to Sherlock.

But the only thing Sherlock could do was stare, dumbfounded. John wiggled his fingers and smiled, making it clearer for Sherlock. Blinking rapidly, much like when John asked him to be his best man, Sherlock placed his hand lightly in John’s. He twitched slightly as their skin touched — he’d swear on his life that he saw sparks. John’s hands were a little dry — a fact easily blamed on being in the hospital — but they were also warm and welcoming. One armed, Sherlock pulled his chair closer to the bed, so close his legs were squished between the chair and the bed. But he didn’t care. At all. Sherlock looked down and saw John’s fingers close around his hand and he was certain he could feel his heart melt in his chest. Shyly, he looked up again and grinned back at John, who also seemed to look a little pink. 

Sherlock held John’s hand until John dozed off again, and even when he did, Sherlock didn’t let go. Instead of John being the one with his fingers tight around Sherlock’s hand, however, it was Sherlock’s hand now covering John’s as he slept. Exhausted himself, Sherlock slowly bent over John’s bed and rested his head gently on John’s forearm. He peered up to first make sure that he wasn’t in the way of any wires or machines, and then he made sure that John was still fast asleep. 

Satisfied, Sherlock closed his eyes, drifting fast and ignoring the building ache in his back and his neck. 

Nearly an hour and a half later, Sherlock startled awake, a low grown escaping his lips. He knew it was a mistake to sleep that way, and his joints were just getting the memo, cracking and creaking as he slowly rolled his body upright. The light that had previously brightened the room through the window had turned to a dull glow that barely crept into the room, the moon taking the sun’s place in the sky. Any significant light came from the hospital equipment and the crack under the door. 

Despite the darkness, Sherlock could sense something was different. Not necessarily bad, at this point, but something had changed in their surroundings as they slept. 

Though it was mostly futile in the dark, Sherlock shifted his eyes around the room and gently released John’s hand as panic seemed to replace the blood in his veins. The change he most noticed was the smell — the perfume of several different breeds of flowers had vanished, not a trace of their odour remaining. He could no longer smell the sickeningly overwhelming smell of roses anymore. 

Sherlock glided soundlessly over to the window to find the shelf empty, all of the flowers and cards gone. In their place was a single polaroid photo. His hands shook violently as he picked up the photograph by its corners and held it up to the moonlight. 

The photo showed John, unconscious in a pool of his own blood. It was John before the paramedics arrived on scene. Sherlock’s breathing accelerated and he felt his fear consume him. Below the photo was the question, “are you having fun yet?”


	3. familiar faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides whether or not he should tell John that the room has been compromised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tumblr** | [whatwouldhuddersdo](http://whatwouldhuddersdo.tumblr.com) (previously longlivejohnlock)

His blood ran cold in his veins and he felt like he was watching a film — like this wasn’t real life, like it wasn’t his life. It was like time stood still and the only movement he could note in the room was the beat of his own heart. 

There were many things contributing to the fear he felt, one being that seeing John in the hospital bed was more than enough — he didn’t need to see the photo of him, helpless and bleeding out. Plus, it only reminded him that it could have been worse. That John could have died. The other main source of his fear was that Eurus had been in this room as they slept, that she had managed to slip past the dozen guards roaming this hallway alone. The easiest explanation was that there was a mole among the guards. It could even be a nurse. Or a doctor. 

And maybe even more concerning to him was that she would have obviously observed the closeness between Sherlock and John, their hands still touching as they slept. The thought haunted Sherlock. 

The only thing he knew was that he would not be leaving John’s side, and he for damn sure would not allow himself to sleep again. 

Quietly, he pocketed the photo and turned around, shuffling back to his place beside John. Not wanting to alert the bodyguards at this point, Sherlock texted Mycroft instead and told them they had to talk. Immediately. 

The hairs on his arm stood tall and on guard as he surveyed John up and down, making sure every wire and tube was the way it had been before they fell asleep. John stirred, undoubtedly feeling Sherlock’s intense gaze. Sherlock held his breath, unsure if he wanted John to be awake or not. He hadn’t decided if he wanted John to know that the room had been compromised. 

But at the same time, Sherlock knew very well that John would be angry with him if he lied — and rightfully so. They had promised each other, now long ago, that there could be no more lies between them. And they’d done well following that promise. The only unspoken truth between them were their unspoken feelings, and Sherlock couldn’t initiate a conversation like that. He couldn’t. 

Grumbling to himself, Sherlock decided he had to wake John before Mycroft showed up.

With as much tenderness as he could muster, Sherlock rested his hand on top of John’s forearm, his breath catching at the contact. Quietly, he cleared his throat and whispered, “John?” He gingerly rubbed his thumb back and forth, trying to coax John out of his slumber. John started stirring, his limbs twitching slightly, so Sherlock whispered his name again, a little bit louder this time. His whisper was met with a drowsy sounding, pain filled groan. 

John stretched, wincing at the same time, and turned his head towards Sherlock, a big smile appearing on his face. Despite Sherlock’s terror, he couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Were you trying to wake me?” John asked, trailing off as he yawned.

Sherlock nodded a bit, the smile fading from his face faster than it appeared.

John’s expression turned serious. “What’s wrong?” 

Gulping nervously, Sherlock stretched his legs forward so that he could access his pocket a little easier. He pulled the photo out and his heart started pounding, and he felt like he could hardly breathe — for what felt like the millionth time in the last day and a half. Sherlock held the photo tightly, almost crushing it.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at John, his insides churning as he reluctantly handed him the photo.

As John surveyed the picture, his gaze intense and his brow crinkled, Sherlock mindlessly picked at the skin around his fingernails knowing full well that he would regret it when he required bandages later.

“W-where did you get this?” John asked, his voice shaking.

Not yet able to speak, Sherlock simply pointed to the ledge under the window, where bouquets had stood tall with get-well cards. All of which were gone, making the room feel hostile and significantly more unfriendly. It felt cold. 

“She was in here?”

Sherlock nodded. “I-I fell asleep,” he muttered, his words laced with guilt and shame. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Sherlock.”

“Isn’t it?”

“We can’t keep doing this. Stop taking on blame that doesn’t belong to you,” John said as gently as possible. “None of what’s happening — or what has happened — is your fault.”

“I should have been watching,” Sherlock tried to reason. “I should have been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“You needed to sleep!”

“Sleep is useless.”

“You know damn well that isn’t true,” John rolled his eyes. “It’s not your fault. Got it? Now, what are we going to do?”

“Well, Mycroft is on his way. That’s why I woke you,” Sherlock shrugged. “Right now, the biggest question is how she got in.”

“Are we sure she was actually here, or did she have one of her minions sneak in?”

Sherlock looked down at the ground. “We aren’t really sure of anything right now.”

There was a knock on the door that they both assumed was Mycroft. But Sherlock wasn’t going to take any chances. He was certain Eurus wouldn’t just knock on the door, but he had to be sure it was his brother. 

Sherlock shot up from his chair, took the photo back from John, and tiptoed to the door. He whispered, “Mycroft?” The person on the other side simply sighed exaggeratedly. Sherlock opened the door, slowly, inch by inch, and let Mycroft slip into the room. Before closing the door all the way, Sherlock peered out into the hallway, his eyes shifting nervously from guard to guard. 

He finally closed the door with a quiet click. When he turned around, his brother was staring at him, confused, and one of his eyebrows higher than the other.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, finally breaking the silence.

Wordlessly, and a big aggressively, Sherlock held the photo up and shoved it in Mycroft’s face. Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft’s expression turned to bewilderment. 

“She left it here, Mycroft,” he hissed. 

“I know,” he said quietly. And uncharacteristically sadly. 

“You what?”

“Did you really think there wouldn’t be some kind of surveillance in this room?”

“You were…watching?” Sherlock asked nervously, saliva vanishing from his mouth, his throat dry.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, irritated. “Only when the door was opened.”

“Well, if you saw her, that means you found her, right?” Sherlock asked, hopeful.

“Unfortunately, no,” Mycroft muttered, scrunching his face, waiting for Sherlock’s reaction. 

Sherlock stepped forward, aggressively, his fists balled up threateningly and his jaw clenched. “What do you mean you haven’t caught her?”

Standing his ground, Mycroft replied. “The recording devices were in the flowers. When she disposed of them…”

“You lost track of her,” Sherlock finished.

“Yes.”

“Terrific.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sherlock shouldered angrily past Mycroft and sat back down — except he plopped down so violently, the chair almost tipped backwards, a look of panic crossing his face for a brief moment.

“We’ll find her,” Mycroft assured, walking over and placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock only glared, not in the mood for any brotherly affection. 

“Do we know if she has people working for her here?” Sherlock questioned. “Guards? Nurses? Doctors?”

“Not that we know of, no.”

Getting tired, and a little offended, of being ignored by both Holmes brothers, John loudly cleared his throat. His attempts to get their attention failed spectacularly and he sighed heavily. Full of frustration, John started expertly taking his IV’s out and unhooking the wires that kept track of his heart activity. The machines started emitting a steady, high pitched sound that normally indicated the heart had stopped beating and the patient had officially died.

That certainly got their attention.

“Hum,” Sherlock started, curious. “W-what are you doing, John?”

“I want to go home,” John mumbled quietly, wincing as he tried to sit up. 

Sherlock stood up quickly and gently pushed against John’s shoulder, trying to get him to lie back down. John fought it briefly before giving up and letting out an anguished groan.

“John, they haven’t even removed your catheter yet,” Sherlock whispered as nurses came busting through the doors, stopping dead in their tracks as their patient appeared to be fine. 

“Sir, what are you doing?” one of the nurses asked. “Please, let us hook you back up, sir.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No,” John repeated defiantly. “I want to go home.”

“I’ll go get your doctor and have her speak to you.”

“Good. Do that.”

John crossed his arms as the remaining nurse tried to reattach him to the machines. Pouting, he allowed his IV to be hooked up again, but he refused the heart monitoring. The nurse grumbled, annoyed, rolled his eyes and left the room. 

“John, you need to be here.”

“I’m a sitting duck!” John shouted, glaring at Sherlock.

“And you wouldn’t be elsewhere?” Sherlock retorted. “She’s more than proven she’s capable of finding you anywhere, John!”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, grimacing. “But if I’m going to die, it blood well won’t be in this room.”

Sherlock felt like he’d been struck.

His mouth dried out and it hurt to swallow — or try to, at least. Really, he was just swallowing big gulps of air. Every inch of his skin tingled, the way skin tingles when it’s losing circulation, and his face was burning. His vision blurred and his eyes glazed over and soon the only thing he could see was John dying. It’s all he saw. Dozens of different ways Eurus could kill John flashed behind his eyes, imprinted on his brain. The worst vision was John dying at Baker Street, in front of Sherlock. All the ways he could die almost didn’t matter — not really. It was just the result. John dying. Always in front of him. 

Sherlock clenched his jaw, so hard it felt like he was about to break his teeth. He balled his fists, angrily, his knuckles losing their colour.

“You’re not dying.”

“Sherlock, you d—“ 

John was interrupted by the door opening and the doctor walking in. All three men turned their attention to her.

“Am I interrupting something?” a familiar voice filled the room. 

Mycroft’s eyes went wide and Sherlock slowly took a step back, getting closer to John, putting himself in between patient and doctor. John gasped quietly and was suddenly very glad he wasn’t hooked up to the heart monitor anymore.

The doctor simply grinned, a maniacal sparkle in her eyes.


End file.
